


Be My Guide

by GoldenJezebel



Series: Shernola [1]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Enola is 17 but still underage, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Incest, Kissing, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Missionary Position, Practice Kissing, Sibling Incest, Student/teacher dynamic, Underage Kissing, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenJezebel/pseuds/GoldenJezebel
Summary: Enola has never been kissed. Displeased by her lack of insight from books, she takes her concerns to Sherlock. Their exploration leads to more than either could have bargained for. ***Incest warning***
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, mentions of Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Shernola [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046521
Comments: 72
Kudos: 261





	1. The Art of Kissing

Enola laid flat on her back in the sitting room, one arm thrown haphazardly over her head while her small, bare feet wiggled against the oriental throw rug. The fibers against her skin were oddly grounding to her addled mind – _soothing_ while she struggled with her newfound, utterly _preposterous_ feelings over boys and romance.

Anxious, she toyed with the pale blue ribbons on her chemise. Over and over her thumb stroked the silk, the nervous tic doing little to conceal her distress. Tewksbury had nearly kissed her. As practiced and intellectual as Enola was, the art of kissing was one thing she was wholly, one-hundred percent _not_ prepared for, and it bothered her immensely. All her life, she’d been granted the tools and education to equip herself for the world. There was very little she _didn’t_ excel at, and it troubled her that this was one milestone that she’d been lent zero insight.

A throat cleared and Enola froze on the spot, startled. Rolling her head toward the intrusion, her heart stuttered when she saw Sherlock standing in the entryway, tall and broad-shouldered and appraising her with his dark, all-seeing eyes. The thought that _he_ could potentially see into her soul made her look away, a faint flush creeping up toward her chest and neck.

“Evening,” she chirped, her tone tight with nerves. “Would you like me to turn on the phonograph?”

Sherlock merely grunted in response, his quiet footfalls moving toward her until he towered directly above her. She swallowed.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Perplexed, Enola offered him a sheepish smile. “It helps me think,” she said.

For a moment, she thought he might snap at her for being unladylike – _Mycroft_ certainly would have – but to her surprise (and delight), Sherlock hummed in thought, then turned before sinking down onto the floor alongside her. He stretched out and folded his hands across his chest, his left thumb subconsciously tucking into his waistcoat. A part of Enola wondered if this was a force of habit – a _comfort._ Despite being open and vulnerable with her these days, she noticed that he often tucked that small part of himself away, almost allowing himself a flimsy form of concealment…of _safety._

“Can you not sleep?” she asked him, her wide eyes locking onto his profile.

Sherlock’s shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug, but he nodded. “My eyes are open, and my thoughts are aflame, so yes – yes, I daresay my state of consciousness is a hint that I _am,_ in fact, finding it difficult to sleep.”

Enola snorted. “No need to get cheeky.” A smile lifted her mouth, and she studied him with interest. Sherlock was more talkative than usual. If she got him to speak more than a few syllables, she considered it a victory. Perhaps she could take advantage of this.

“I can’t sleep either,” she continued, rolling over onto her side.

“Yes,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes remaining on the ceiling, “so I’ve gathered.”

She smiled. “If _I_ am finding it difficult to sleep, and _you_ are finding it difficult to sleep, perhaps we should share what is ailing us.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped toward her, only to immediately dart back toward the ceiling. “I am not in the habit of making pep talks, Enola. You know this.” Nevertheless, there was a small smile on his lips, and she detected the slightest hint of affection in his tone. Despite his attempts to erect walls, she was gradually learning the easiest ways to scale them. She was a decipherer – a _problem solver_ – and there was no puzzle greater than the elusive Sherlock Holmes.

Propping her cheek onto her sandwiched hands, Enola curled her knees toward her chest and smiled. “I don’t need a pep talk,” she assured him. “If anything, I am seeking advice.”

“Oh?” Sherlock finally dignified her with direct eye contact, and to her surprise, a sharp thrill raced throughout her veins at the heady exchange. His gaze held so much wisdom – so much softness. Softness for _her._

“Um…yes,” she stammered, bewildered by the sudden heat rushing through her. “I have a question about…about boys.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. _“Boys?”_

“Well…not in regards to your sex, per se – I already _know_ most boys are ridiculous – but I’ve met someone, and his intentions have turned romantic in nature,” Enola said. All the while, her cheeks grew increasingly red. “I suppose what I am _trying_ to ask is: do you have any advice on the art of kissing?”

For once, Sherlock didn’t look away. His steady gaze remained on her face and she squirmed, disquieted by his undivided attention.

“Romance and love are not entirely an artform,” he offered, careful in delivering his words. “Or more aptly put, it isn’t an _exact science._ What works for one individual will not yield the same results for another.”

Enola swallowed. “So then…how can I possibly know what would work best for _me?”_

“You cannot. Not until you, yourself, have been kissed.”

Slowly, her heart sank. “But I do not wish to do _poorly,”_ she lamented. “What if Tewksbury-?”

 _“Tewksbury?”_ Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further. “That _boy_ is behind all this distress, is he?”

Flushing, Enola nodded. “I am willing to wager I would be his first kiss, but my ego…I-I suppose I cannot allow myself to be subpar in anything, truth be told. Or at least, not in something as momentous as a kiss.”

Sherlock sighed, then directed his gaze back toward the ceiling. “If he cares for you, the bumbling nature of your first attempts won’t matter.”

 _“Bumbling?”_ Insulted, Enola rocked up into a sitting position. “How are you to know I will be _bumbling?_ Why, perhaps I am a natural!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Indeed? Well then, perhaps you are.”

“Oh! You _laugh!”_

Her irate response earned her _another_ laugh, and Enola clenched her fists. She was desperate to wipe the smugness from his face – _so_ desperate, in fact, that she ended up throwing all proper decorum out the window.

“Show me then,” she seethed. “If you are such a bloody expert, _show me_ what it is I must do!”

All at once, it felt as though the very air had left the room. Sherlock gaped up at her, staring in such open-mouthed, blatant _shock_ that she couldn’t help but delight in his quandary. She had done that. _She,_ Enola Holmes, had rendered the world’s greatest genius _impotent_ in a battle of wits.

Spurred on by his disbelief, Enola continued, “It seems only right, don’t you think? You are Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective, and truly, what greater mystery is there than the art of love? If anyone knows how to kiss, it will inevitably be you.”

Sherlock finally closed his mouth. His jaw tensed, and his forelock bobbed as he sat up to meet with her gaze. “If you need books-”

“I need an _expert,”_ she coolly clarified. “Though I’m loath to admit as such, you are the greatest mind I have ever encountered. It would be cruel of you to deny me knowledge.”

A low, raspy laugh caught in Sherlock’s throat, yet there was a look of wary uncertainty in his eyes. “You truly _are_ a Holmes…”

“Yes, and we teach each other. It is in our blood.” Taking his hand, Enola marveled at his size and strength. Tewksbury was a kind and gentle boy, but _Sherlock_ was a man. He would assuredly know how to prepare her far better than the sweet, but inexperienced lad she had grown to care for.

“Teach me,” she pleaded. “Show me the types of kisses I must learn.”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed, and hesitant, he lifted a hand to tuck back a lock of her hair. His fingers, though not calloused by any means, felt pleasantly rough against her skin and she smiled, subconsciously leaning into his touch.

“Let’s start with platonic,” she suggested.

Sherlock’s eyes remained on her face, and he nodded slowly. “Platonic kisses are exchanged between friends – sometimes family,” he murmured. “They are quick and chaste. To linger would be to flirt with impropriety.”

Placing his middle and index fingers beneath her chin, Sherlock lifted Enola’s head and leaned forward to press a quick, closed-mouthed kiss to her lips. The act had been so quick, so _sudden,_ that her head spun with the briskness of it all.

“May I try?” she breathlessly asked.

Reluctant, Sherlock nodded. “A call and response type of lesson seems appropriate in this case.”

Trying not to appear too eager, Enola took hold of his lapels, then swooped in with a dry peck of her own. Despite the quick and chaste nature of their kiss, she couldn’t help the dizzying, overwhelming rush that dipped within her stomach.

Unbidden, her knees began to tremble. “And lustful?”

Visibly paling, it was clear to Enola that Sherlock hadn’t anticipated her having knowledge of carnality. “Lust is…far more complicated,” he whispered. “There isn’t often affection nor love in a kiss of this nature, so you must use these sparingly if you do, in fact, have romantic aspirations.”

Enola nodded, still holding tight to his waistcoat. She closed her eyes in anticipation, and gave a full-body shiver whenever his mouth crashed over hers. To her surprise, Sherlock’s kiss was rough and bruising, startling her with the almost _painful_ intensity of lips, teeth and tongue. All the books in the world couldn’t have possibly prepared her for this moment – for this freedom, this rapture, this _need._

A hitching breath caught in Enola’s throat, and her trembling hands slid toward his shoulders. Her mouth opened in a gasp, and then Sherlock glossed his tongue over hers, devouring her soft, eager moans as his hand fisted through her hair. This type of kiss was both wrong _and_ right – she felt completely undone and on fire as a low, throbbing ache pulsed between her legs. But before she could plead for more, Sherlock withdrew with a shuddering breath, and Enola sagged down to her hands and knees.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

To her embarrassment, his tone somehow made her even wetter than before. Swallowing low in her throat, Enola managed to shakily rise again and take hold of his shoulders.

“Just like I showed you,” Sherlock encouraged, his mouth appearing kiss-swollen and inviting within the dim lamplight.

Enola shivered. With fumbling hands, she curled her fingers through his curls and crushed her mouth into his, sighing sweetly whenever he enveloped her in his arms. She nipped at his bottom lip, scratched at his clothed shoulders, and licked at his expert mouth, trying her damndest to emulate his wild passion from earlier. If there was one thing Enola was exceptional at, it was the art of mimicry, and judging by the hitch in Sherlock’s breath, she had done exactly what she was supposed to. It filled her with a sense of girlish glee.

Breaking the kiss with a shallow breath, Sherlock lowly advised her, “No more.”

Enola fought off a whine. “Very well,” she weakly agreed. “The last type of kiss is romantic love.”

_Romantic love…_

Neither had been in love before – not truly – and she swore she saw that exact struggle briefly dance across his eyes. Sherlock, however, was always an attentive teacher, and it startled her how quickly his savage movements from earlier turned into something warmer, sweeter, _tender._

With her cheeks cupped between his open palms, Sherlock leaned forward and mouthed at her parted lips, sharing their breath as one before he claimed her with a kiss that left her reeling – _drowning._ She gripped at his shoulders and whimpered, overwhelmed by the warmth and affection she felt through their very touch. _This_ was how love was supposed to feel, she realized. Would a kiss from Tewksbury evoke this same vibrant, intoxicating rush?

Sinking down from his embrace, Enola released a breath and blushed. “That was…illuminating, thank you.”

Sherlock’s grip on her waist remained tight. “Do you not wish to reciprocate?”

Quickly, she shook her head, keeping her eyes on his cravat. “I think I have learned precisely what I needed to know… I appreciate it, Sherlock. You are an excellent teacher.”

A warm, lopsided smile came to his lips, and then he pressed an almost fumbling kiss to her forehead. Despite their prior intimacy, it would seem he was charmingly awkward whenever it came to genuine, unplanned affection. Evidently, he could only deal with touch if it was part of instruction. But spur of the moment? Not quite so easily.

Rising from off the floor on shaking, unsteady legs, Enola tripped, but quickly disguised it with a stumbling curtsy. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” she said. “When Tewksbury comes for his visit tomorrow, I think I’ll know precisely what I must do.”

With her hand lifting toward her mouth, Enola cleared her throat and made a brisk departure for the door. As she rushed out into the hallway, she failed to notice Sherlock collapse onto the floor, his hands pressing to his eyes as he stifled a feeble groan.


	2. Drawn Towards the Edge

Tewksbury’s visit didn’t lead to a kiss. In fact, Enola and her beau were barely granted any privacy at all, given how any time they had a stolen moment, Sherlock somehow appeared before them like an omnipresent wraith.

While Tewksbury found his behavior considerate, Enola knew better. Sherlock could be kind, but he was _not_ a dutiful host. His conduct was rather reminiscent of jealousy, she thought, and she would be lying if she didn’t find the prospect a bit thrilling. She’d never before been the object of someone’s attentions – or at least, not to this extent – and she found Sherlock’s broody, silent interruptions both delightful and exasperating. How was she to get her first _prepared-for_ _kiss_ if he wouldn’t leave them be?

While the three of them gathered for their luncheon, Enola tried her very best to concentrate on Tewksbury’s latest adventure. She could feel Sherlock watching them – or more aptly put, _her_ – and it made her skin itch with self-conscious heat.

Finally, Tewksbury dabbed his napkin to his mouth, then rose with a sheepish little smile. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I really must be going.”

“Oh, no!” Enola cried, shooting up from the table. “Please don’t go!”

“I am afraid I have matters to attend to in town…matters I have put off for far too long, admittedly.” He smiled and took her hand. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”

Tewksbury clearly wanted to kiss her hand, just as they’d shared so long ago, but seemed put off by Sherlock’s unyielding appraisal.

The boy cleared his throat. “Right then,” he said. “I pray I’ll see you again soon, Enola.”

“Yes, of course you will. I’ll see you out,” she promised.

Sherlock, however, caught hold of her hand as she passed. “One of the servants can attend him,” he muttered.

“Oh, but-!”

“It’s quite all right,” Tewksbury assured them. “Thank you again for your glowing hospitality.”

The boy left the room, and then the air grew unbearably thick. Agitated, Enola ripped her hand from Sherlock’s grip. “Would you care to explain yourself?”

Returning his attention to his rack of lamb, Sherlock cut into the meat with unnecessary vigor. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

 _“Don’t_ you?” He remained silent, so she snorted. “I cannot _believe_ you would help me prepare for arguably the most _monumental moment_ of my young life, and then go so far as to _thwart_ my intentions!”

Sherlock scowled, placing a forkful of meat into his mouth. “You are being absurd.”

Enola laughed. _“I_ am being absurd? No! What is _absurd_ is you refuse to tell me what’s bothering you! Why, you seem jealous of a mere boy!” One who was increasingly starting to pale in comparison to the stubborn, _infuriating_ man before her.

Finally, Sherlock leaned back and set his fork aside. Never one to lose his composure, the only sign of his agitation was a faint, barely perceptible tensing of his jaw. “Enola, you are being a child,” he admonished. “If you were unable to receive a kiss this afternoon, that is of _no_ fault of my own. Perhaps young Tewksbury wasn’t ready.”

“Oh, he was _quite_ ready,” Enola spat. “He nearly told me as such with his eyes. But you?” She laughed again. _“You,_ the world’s greatest problem solver, could _somehow_ not figure out that in order for us to succumb, we needed to be alone!”

Sherlock lifted his wineglass and took a generous swallow. “You know how society deems it necessary for two young, unwed people to be chaperoned.”

She scoffed. “Since when do _you_ care about societal conduct?” Shaking her head, Enola grabbed his glass and set it aside. “We have bonded over this past year, have we not?”

Sherlock lowered his eyes. Tucking his thumb beneath his waistcoat, as per his usual habit, he offered a grudging nod.

Enola’s gaze softened. “Amidst that time, I would like to think we’ve progressed in such a way that we can tell each other anything… _talk_ to each other.” Perching herself onto the edge of the dining room table, she laid her hand over the warmth of his own. While she curled her fingers around his wrist, she noticed his throat bob reflexively. “Won’t you talk to me, Sherlock?”

When he remained silent, Enola leaned forward to press a kiss to his mouth – one of the chaste, platonic ones he had taught her the night prior – but to her surprise, he turned his head and jerked his hand from her grasp.

“I have a headache,” he muttered. “If you feel it necessary to call on me, I would ask that you wait at least an hour.”

Enola blanched. “Oh, but-”

“I will see you at supper, Enola. Good day to you.”

Before she could argue, he’d already broken away and stormed from the room.

* * *

Enola, naturally, did _not_ adhere to Sherlock’s request. How could she, when he was clearly in such a state?

With the help of one of the kitchen maids, she prepared him some mint tea for his headache, accompanied by a couple biscuits. As she scaled the grand staircase toward his room, she gripped the tray between her hands, gnawing her lower lip as she thought of what she might say to him. Inexplicably, her heart raced. Enola had never felt nervous around Sherlock before, so she couldn’t understand what had changed – or more accurately put, she didn’t _want_ to understand.

Stopping outside his bedroom door, she cleared her throat and moved to knock. She faltered, however, once she realized it was already open a tiny crack. Sherlock had once told her that an open door meant she could enter whenever she wished. It wasn’t _blatantly_ open, but a small bloom of hope flourished within her breast at the gesture. He must’ve been willing to make discussion!

Nudging the door open the rest of the way with her hip, Enola smiled and entered the room. Though just as she moved to speak, the blood rushed from her face and she froze, a million questions racing through her head as she struggled to process what she was seeing.

There, standing in front of his dresser was Sherlock, his shoulders hunched while he spared her nothing but his back. Soft grunts caught in his throat, and his left hand gripped at the edge of the furniture, squeezing and tensing while his right arm… Enola blinked, stunned. His _right_ arm was jerking quite aggressively, his breath growing thin as he nearly sagged against the dresser.

After a moment, Enola noticed something else… Trembling, her gaze drifted toward the miniature directly by his left hand. It was her likeness – a small portrait she’d commissioned for him as a present for accepting her into his home. Why was it sitting there? Usually, it hung over his bed…

That was when Sherlock and Enola locked eyes through his mirror on the wall.

A stunned, choking noise caught in his throat, and he staggered toward his nightstand, quick to grab a large doily before drawing it over his indecency.

Clumsily, Enola set the tray onto a small end table. “I-I brought you some tea,” she said, her voice shaking. “You spoke of a headache, so I thought…I-I thought…”

Sherlock thrust up a hand, cutting her off and panting shallowly. He couldn’t look at her – _wouldn’t_ look at her.

“If I have offended you…”

“Leave the tray,” he rasped, visibly swallowing. A healthy, delicate pink stained his face, neck, and the notch of his chest peeking through his collar. He was wild and disheveled, and as he discreetly tried to tuck himself back into his trousers beneath the flimsy, threadbare concealment of the doily, Enola was overcome by a rush of heat that licked through her veins. She had read about masturbation – in fact, she _had_ masturbated – yet in spite of her scientific knowledge, she couldn’t quite fathom _Sherlock_ doing it or _why_ he’d needed to.

“You needn’t be ashamed,” she whispered. “There isn’t a single man or woman alive who hasn’t been gripped by urges, no matter _how_ hard society tries to deem it immoral.”

Sherlock breathed a weary chuckle. “I don’t believe either one of us are in any position to discuss _immorality,_ Enola.”

She raised her chin, disliking the implication. “Are you referring to last night?”

With his indecency tucked away, Sherlock dropped the doily and bitterly fastened his trousers. Despite her better judgment, Enola found herself wondering if he’d even had the chance to _finish._

“I am not ashamed,” she continued, choosing not to wait for his response. “What we shared together was… _beautiful,_ in its own way. You know me unlike any other. You understand me… _we_ understand each _other.”_

Keeping his eyes on the floor, Sherlock shook his head and huffed. “If you truly understand me, you have far more insight on the matter than I do.”

Perplexed, Enola slowly approached him, much like how one would try and assuage a wild animal. “Are you saying you are conflicted? That…that you do not _understand_ your response to our…?”

“Do _not_ speak of it.”

She flinched, stunned by the thunder in his voice. “What happened was consensual,” she assured him. “I _asked_ you to help me, and you were kind enough to lend your aid.” Her eyes dropped again to his trousers, and her pulse quickened when she noticed the hard, unmistakable outline of his cock through the tweed cloth. With a sharp intake of breath, she steeled herself and approached farther, ignoring his look of alarm whenever she reached out to touch him.

Before she could so much as cup him through the fabric, Sherlock gruffly wrenched her away. “Leave, you foolish girl,” he whispered, his voice unsteady.

Enola lifted her large eyes to his. There was so much pain gazing back at her – so much fear and uncertainty and _anguish_ – and it felt as though a dull hook were ripping through her heartstrings. He didn’t blame himself, did he? Did Sherlock truly believe he was at fault?

With her heart in her throat, Enola rose on tiptoe and cupped his face, forcing him to return her beseeching gaze. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

He stubbornly dropped his gaze to the floor. Despite his refusal for eye contact, Sherlock’s hands curled around her wrists and he leaned into her touch, almost as if he were anchoring her against him for stability. In that moment, Enola truly believed he might fall.

Trying her best not to cry, she traced her thumbs over his cheeks. “I love you, Sherlock,” she assured him. “Whatever you are feeling…”

 _“Enough,_ damn you!” Furious, he ripped her hands from his face, visibly trembling as his eyes grew glassy. “Go to your room – _now,_ Enola.”

“But Sherlock…”

_“Go!”_

She flinched, stunned by the growling force behind his words. In all their time spent together, he had never _once_ raised his voice. Could he truly hate her that much? Hate her _affections_ that much?

Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill down her cheeks, and the tormented fire in Sherlock’s gaze left her breathless as she turned on her heel and fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who left a review! It helped my inspiration more than you could possibly know. <3 Initially, I had just intended to wrap this up in two parts, but for some reason, my squirrel brain wanted to delve into jealous/conflicted!Sherlock for a chapter, so the NEXT chapter will be the conclusion. I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> P.S. This title's chapter comes from Natalie Imbruglia's lovely song, "Beauty on the Fire," which you can find here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0F0qLsdZHo I think parts of the lyrics really fit their situation in this story, so I had trouble picking which parts to use for the title!


	3. All Will Be Forgiven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sexual content warning.**

They didn’t speak about it for three days. Truth be told, they didn’t speak about anything at all, for fear of facing what they truly felt inside. Sherlock, in particular, was overcome by guilt for the way he’d conducted himself. Enola hadn’t deserved that. She was young and confused – _he_ was confused – and his oaths and shouts hadn’t done anything to convince, so much as dismay.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was a stubborn man, and stubborn men didn’t face what was ailing them. That was why he’d chosen to (yet again) have his breakfast alone. Sourly gazing out the dining room window, he sipped his coffee and stared without seeing, his mind’s eye conjuring the memory of Enola’s bright, tearful eyes instead of the city streets before him.

“Sherlock!”

The door burst open and he lurched, nearly upsetting his coffee onto the tablecloth. Before he could think to reprimand her, Enola was at his side, and she was…

He balked, swallowing sharply. _God._ She wasn’t wearing anything but her chemise and bloomers, all the while fussing with her corset over top.

“What on earth are you doing?” he demanded, finally finding his voice.

“Trying to get dressed!” Enola snapped as if it were obvious. “I have a big case today, and-”

“Case?”

 _“Yes,”_ she said impatiently. “If you would have _spoken_ to me these past few days, you would already _know_ that I have been enlisted to help Mrs. Brightwell. She believes her dead brother isn’t…well… _dead.”_

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with intrigue. “Oh, no?”

“No,” she affirmed, exasperated, “but I’m going to be late if you don’t help me!”

“Help you?”

 _“Help_ me!” she growled. “Good gracious, Sherlock, are you having an inner ear problem? There’s an awful lot of repetition going on this morning!”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I haven’t the faintest idea why you would need _my_ help in…” He glanced down at her undergarments again, tensed, and then promptly returned his gaze to her face. “…lacing up.”

Enola brightened. “Oh, so you _do_ know what I need?”

“W-well-”

“I imagined you’d be able to lace a corset, seeing how you’re both knowledgeable _and_ one who delights in learning everything there is to know, so I figured you would be the best person to ask!” She shrugged. “Not to mention, the _only_ person to ask. All the servants are either out on errands, or tending to other business.”

The blood drained from Sherlock’s face. “That isn’t possible,” he said. “Why, Anna just came in from-”

“I am _not_ going to ask the kitchen maid,” Enola said. “That poor woman does more than enough as it is, so I needn’t force her to tie up my corset, too.” She pouted. “Besides, you’re right here, and doing _nothing,_ as far as I can tell.”

Sherlock leaned back with a sigh. “You truly _are_ incorrigible, you know that?”

Enola grinned. “Yes, I do know that – because I rest-assuredly got my doggedness from _you.”_

Sherlock masked his surprise with a soft, yet almost affectionate little snort. “Very well,” he agreed. “Stand over there, and I shall tend to you.”

While Enola gleefully moved to the corner of the room, Sherlock removed his napkin from his lap and set it onto the table, then made his way toward her with caution.

“Do you have a lacing preference?” he asked. “Knots? Or bows, perhaps?”

Enola scoffed. “Do I _look_ like a lady who has a preference?”

“You barely look like a lady at all, prancing about in your underthings.”

“All right, _Mycroft.”_

Sherlock laughed at that, resisting the urge to pass his fingers through her hair. “You know I am jesting, Enola. Pull your hair forward, if you please.”

She did as he asked, baring to him the network of pale blue, loosened ribbons along her back.

As he took hold of the bindings, Enola smiled and said, “You know, I _am_ actually quite curious as to how you’ve gleaned this knowledge. Did you practice on a woman, or…?” She trailed off then, startled by the brief stab of jealousy that burned within her breast. Why should she be jealous? It was only this past year that she’d been able to share everything with Sherlock – _have_ him – so the thought of being envious of his past was ridiculous.

Sherlock, fortunately, was far too distracted to take note of her tone. Gathering up the slack at her waistline, he firmly pulled the ribbons from top to bottom, redistributing to the pull loops at her middle before he decided to answer. “About five years ago, I had a case that required smuggling,” he said. “The client – a Mrs. Emerson – agreed to hide a prized jewel inside her corset. And naturally, since I never trust anything to chance, _I_ was the one to lace her up. I needed to make certain that the jewel got safely from point A to point B, and _without_ being stolen.”

Enola simpered. “Such a hardship, I’m sure.”

“In a manner of speaking.” Sherlock smiled, his hands only a touch unsteady as little by little, her slim form began to take shape. With his left hand holding her down, he used the other to pull on the X’s along her back, his mouth growing dry once the corset was finally tight and secure. “Is this suitable?” he asked.

Enola nodded, so he tied a bow in the center of the corset, ensuring that the bones weren’t bowing. Afterward, he loosened her hip ties on either side, then retied them to a more accommodating pressure.

“There, now,” he murmured, gently passing his fingers over her back. “That should do it.”

Smoothing her hands along the busk, Enola smiled before turning around to face him. “Oh, Sherlock,” she whispered. _“Thank_ you! If I leave now, I just might make it, after all!”

Sherlock swallowed. As he gazed upon the young, lissome girl before him, it was suddenly painfully obvious that she _wasn’t_ a girl – she was a woman. A strong, capable, sweet-faced woman of seventeen years, with nothing but the whole world before her. Did he _truly_ wish to rob her of that? To be selfish and keep her for himself?

Forcing himself to look away, Sherlock offered a smile and murmured, “You had better get dressed. You may be sufficiently laced up, but you cannot run into town like that.”

“Oh!” Enola clapped a hand to her cheek, laughing. “Goodness, I nearly forgot! I suppose I really _am_ foolish sometimes, aren’t I?”

Against his better judgment, Sherlock pressed what he prayed to be a chaste kiss upon her mouth. “Good luck today, Enola. I’m certain you’ll make me proud.”

She beamed, her eyes sparkling like fireflies in a jar. “Thank you, Sherlock. I truly hope I will.” Rising on tiptoe, she was only tall enough to brush a kiss against his chin, but it still sent an undeniable thrill through him, sharp and electric.

* * *

Sherlock worried when Enola didn’t return home right away. Pacing back and forth through the sitting room, he found himself constantly checking the time, muttering to himself and cursing under his breath. It had been hours since he’d last seen her face, and the steady _tick tick tick_ from the grandfather clock did little to assuage the growing dread in his stomach. It was dark and it was raining, and she hadn’t left with any proper outerwear. He never should’ve let her go out alone. Perhaps the case had proven too much. Perhaps someone had…

The front doors burst open and Sherlock jumped, turning toward the intrusion in alarm. Enola stood there, drenched from the rain, but otherwise wearing a bright, ebullient grin. “Sherlock!” she exclaimed, laughing before racing forward and vaulting herself into his arms. She dangled there for a moment, pressing gleeful, affectionate kisses to his cheek before he awkwardly helped her down to her proper height.

“I take it everything went well?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she cried, her eyes glittering with excitement. “I already earned the reward and everything!”

 _“Already?”_ he echoed, amazed.

Nodding, she grinned. “Shall I tell you about it?”

“All in due time,” he agreed, “but _first…”_ He gave her a concerned onceover. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.” Catching the look on her face, he flushed and amended, _“You_ must get yourself out of these clothes, lest you catch your death of cold. I’ll send for some tea.”

Pleased, Enola nodded and started wringing out her hair.

* * *

Enola’s adventure had been a quick and exciting one, and Sherlock listened raptly as she told him about it, gesturing animatedly and giggling while she sat by the fire on his large, oriental rug.

“That’s quite a story,” Sherlock finally said. He beamed. “I confess to being a touch envious.”

“As you should be,” Enola said, pleased. Her cheeks were a delicate rosy hue, and her hair was mostly dry. She’d long since changed into her chemise, and Sherlock tried to ignore the silhouette of her soft, gentle curves as she leaned toward him. “Do you think we could play a duet?”

Helpless, Sherlock glanced at the clock. “I believe we should be thinking about sleep, Enola, not-”

 _“Please?”_ she pressed. “I am far too excited to sleep, and I haven’t heard you play the violin in weeks!” She clasped her hands as though in prayer, looking up at him with her big, deceptively innocent brown eyes. “I’ll be on my very best behavior if you do.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Your ‘very best behavior’ for how long?”

Enola grinned, lowering her hands into her lap. “The jury’s still out on that one, I must confess.”

Feigning irritable resignation, Sherlock successfully hid his smile and rose from his wing-backed chair. He held out a hand to Enola, and whenever she gleefully accepted and leapt her to feet, his smile bled across his face uninhibited.

 _“One_ duet,” he warned.

“One,” she agreed, “and it’ll be Schumann’s ‘Andante und Variationen, Opus 46!’”

Sherlock huffed. “You chose one of the longest pieces I know.”

Turning toward the piano, she winked at him. “Yes. Precisely.”

Gathering up his violin from the end table, he drew it beneath his chin and grabbed his bow. Once Enola seated herself and began tinkling at the keys, he felt his heart soar in warm, exalting scales in accordance with the notes. Enola was home again, and for reasons he didn’t quite wish to explore, so was he.

* * *

By the time they retired, the storm was still well underway. Sherlock stood in front of his bedroom window, gazing below at the soaked streets and its grumbling occupants. For years, his people gazing had led him to curiosities, and in some instances, even yearning for other worlds – but not tonight. With Enola at his side, his dreams of the “what if?” had become increasingly limited. She brought him peace – she brought him _purpose,_ and it frightened him to have become that dependent upon one person.

Shaking his head at the thought, he irritably disrobed and slid into bed.

“Sherlock?”

A gentle knock rapped on his door, and he jerked, exhaling before running a hand down his face. “Yes, Enola, what is it?”

The door opened, and cautiously, she slid into his room. Judging by her slow movements, she had learned from her last intrusion. “I was hoping you could help me unlace?” she asked.

Sherlock regarded her sagely. Unlike this morning, when there was no one on hand to assist, Enola didn’t truly _need_ his help. Nevertheless, he knew he couldn’t deny her anything. Deep down, he imagined she knew this too.

Gesturing her forward, Sherlock waited until she shut the door, and then he instructed her to turn around.

“You played beautifully tonight,” Enola murmured. Lifting her hair over her shoulder, she canted her head as he loosened her corset. “Maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I don’t think we’ve ever been that in sync before…that _together.”_

Sherlock’s mouth grew inexplicably dry, and he chose to say nothing.

Enola, fortunately, didn’t seem curious by his lack of response. “We’ve learned a lot from one another this past year, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Clumsily, he finished with her unlacing. “Yes, I daresay we have.” Drawing back, Sherlock held his hands aloft, almost as if he were afraid of where to put them.

As she turned around and regarded him with her wide, all-seeing eyes, he felt seen – _naked,_ only to suddenly recall that he _was_ naked. He was concealed by his quilt, thankfully, but her seeing his bare torso was beyond inappropriate.

“I trust that’s all you needed?” he asked, inferring that the discussion was closed.

Enola frowned, but nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I suppose that’s all.” She hesitated a moment more, then reached out and took his face between her hands. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft, _intimate,_ and surged through him like a warm shot of whiskey.

Enola withdrew again and stroked his cheek. “I can feel your heart,” she whispered. Her eyes were wet as she spoke, and Sherlock’s pulse quickened whenever she smiled. Gently, her fingers traced over his curls, his strong jaw, and then over the very place she’d kissed him on the mouth.

“Enola,” he warned.

“I know you feel it,” she persisted, trembling as she drifted her hand down to lay over his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart drummed a frantic staccato rhythm. “You love me, Sherlock, and I love you. That isn’t wrong.” Her eyes shone with tears. “It will _never_ be wrong.”

“But…”

“Your interference with Tewksbury made me realize something,” she cut in. Slowly, she lowered herself down so that she was straddling his blanketed lap.

He swallowed and leaned in toward her, like a boat drawn to shore. Despite his better judgment, Sherlock helped her slip off her corset and set it onto his nightstand with fumbling, jittery fingers. “And what would that be?” he rasped.

Enola smiled, taking his hand in hers. “I realized that no one – not Tewksbury, not Mycroft, not _anyone_ – could ever compare to you. When we are together, I feel complete…I feel _whole._ I was foolish to think I could love anyone else.”

Sherlock drew a breath. “Enola, you are speaking _nonsense.”_

“No.” She shook her head. “For the first time in my life, I am speaking perfect sense. I finally have clarity.” Still holding his hand, she guided it down to rest over her bosom, her eyes shining as she encouraged him to cup a breast. Beneath his palm, Sherlock felt the bud of her nipple through the thin, translucent fabric. “Will you not have me?”

“You already have me,” he lowly assured her. “This is…this is _not_ necessary.”

It wasn’t sane, it wasn’t safe, and yet it felt _logical._ Enola was his greatest confidant, and she his, so this time when she leaned in for a kiss, he found himself traitorously lifting into the giving rush of her mouth. Her lips were fuller than his, _softer_ , and a ripple of heat flowed through him when her teeth grazed his bottom lip.

“Wait a moment,” he whispered into their kiss. “Are you proposing that…?”

“Yes,” Enola finished for him, peeling back his blanket. “And before you ask, I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”

Sherlock moved to speak, but she curled an inexpert hand around him and the words died on his tongue. A flush overcame his face and chest, and he leaned back against the headboard, his hands clumsily gripping her waist as she pulled and stroked him to a painful rigidity.

She was right, of course – lately, Enola was _always_ right. There was no one he loved more, and despite the fact he should be repulsed by what was happening, he felt nothing but starshine exploding through his veins at her very touch. He sagged back in compliance.

Biting back the groan that caught in his throat, Sherlock lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the gentle slope as she worked him between her fingers. Enola’s concentration was endearing – despite her inexperience, she didn’t remove her focus from pleasing him. But whenever she bent down to take him in her mouth, he quickly stopped her.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“But-”

“Please… You constantly sacrifice your needs for my own, and on this night, I do not intend for that to happen again.” Enola appeared as though she was ready for an argument, so Sherlock drew her down over top of him again, silencing her protests with a kiss.

Her small hands fisted his curls, and she whimpered into his open mouth, lapping at his tongue and mewling in a way that had him aching for her.

Drifting his lips toward her ear, he buried his face into her hair and shuddered, feeling Enola lift her chemise and settle her bare, wet heat against the rigid bar of him.

_God…_

Clutching at her shoulders, he nipped at her throat and embraced her tightly, another wave of heat rolling through him when she reached between them and gripped at his cock.

“Lie back,” she ordered.

Obedient, Sherlock leaned into the pillows and held fast to her hips, his breath shallow and unsteady as he and Enola locked eyes.

“I am not a child,” she reminded him. “I have read books – I have studied the human body, and I _know_ what it is to desire. And right now…” She rubbed herself against his tip, causing him to clench his teeth. “… _this_ is what I desire.”

With her hands on his chest, Enola slowly eased herself down around him, a sharp, painful pinch flaring between her legs as a soft cry caught in her throat. To her surprise, Sherlock reached beneath her chemise and rubbed at their point of union. Each time she moved, his thumb responsively circled her bud, bringing about a warm, thrilling heat that rolled through her limbs and made her clench around him.

“Fuck,” she swore, only to quickly clap a hand over her mouth.

Sherlock would have laughed at her sudden need for clean language, but found himself unable. As she rose and fell against him, he took hold of her waist and _rocked_ her, encouraging her to grind down into the angle that would bring her the most pleasure. Her eyes closed and her head dropped back, and a low, helpless whine caught in her throat.

“That’s it,” he huskily encouraged, his voice tight. She was beautiful like this…she was discovering herself, and Sherlock felt wholly _privileged_ to be the one to bear witness to her shift into womanhood.

“Please,” Enola begged. Shakily, she lifted a hand to her chest and she panted, her eyes wide. “Can we…? C-can _you…?”_

Wordlessly, Sherlock helped her disengage and roll down onto her back. She was glowing and breathless, and deliriously lightheaded, and it gave him no greater pleasure than to continue what she could not. She was too overwhelmed.

Cupping her flushed cheeks, he pressed a kiss to her brow, then lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist. Her arms came around his shoulders, and then he sank back inside her, groaning as she tensed up and cried out. As he slid in to the hilt, her insides gripped around his cock and he sighed into her throat, careful not to hurt her as he thrust forward.

Digging her heels into his lower back, Enola whimpered and attempted to gather him up more deeply inside her, her teeth sinking into his shoulder as her nails scoured down his back.

Gripping at the edge of the mattress, Sherlock brushed his lips over her hair and drove more strongly between her thighs, the rope supports creaking as the rainfall drowned out their shared breaths. Even with her desperately rolling up into his thrusts, he managed to maintain his steady rhythm, his mouth crashing down over hers and devouring her soft, eager cries.

Enola’s right arm fell by her head, and while she kissed him with a fierceness that pierced through him, Sherlock’s touch was gentle as his hand interlaced with hers. Their fingers gripped, tight and reassuring, and as her tongue stole over his, a restless tingle swelled up within him and he increased his pace.

Enola clamped down around him and practically sobbed into his mouth, her tight heat nearly making him lose control. Thrusting into her orgasm, Sherlock kissed down toward her throat and groaned into her skin, his hand gripping more desperately at hers as he chased his pleasure toward that unknown precipice.

“Do it,” Enola begged. “Cum in me…”

For a moment, he was startled by her dirty talk – perhaps she really _had_ been reading one of the marriage companions on his shelf – but as with everything else, he was quick to maintain his composure.

His body tightened like a bow string, and then Sherlock snarled softly, disregarding her plea and pulling out with a choking cry. He came hard across her thighs and collapsed against her, struggling to catch his breath as Enola wrapped him up in her arms.

“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing his brow.

Sherlock laid there, stunned and shivering as her fingers stroked through his curls in gentle, idle patterns. Her heart pounded beneath his ear, and somehow, he felt it – he felt _alive_ and full of possibility. It was what Enola brought out of him most.

Lifting his head, Sherlock managed to return her gaze and cupped her face, his breath catching in his lungs whenever she reached up and drew him down to her mouth. This time when they kissed, it was purely sweet and gentle – _chaste,_ almost – and he deepened the kiss while her arms wrapped around his neck.

“You'll never leave me, right?" she pleaded against his lips.

“No,” Sherlock lowly agreed, _“never.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a much more fluffy/romantic turn than my usual "descriptive trash" M.O. lol, so I hope you all enjoyed regardless! Thank you SO much to everyone who's taken the time to let me know your thoughts. I truly appreciate it! <3 
> 
> As a side note, you can find the song they played together here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49TvuAC0fpQ I was researching 19th century duets, and that was the one I chose. :)
> 
> As an extra side note, I realized (after the fact) that I'd unintentionally channeled the musical _Spring Awakening_ with the whole "I can feel your heart" thing. And honestly, that bit really fits Shernola, especially because of the whole, "No, we're not supposed to!" / "Not supposed to what? _Feel_ something?" exchange, so I decided to name the title of this chapter after a lyric from the song "Believe." You can find that here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SY1VLM2pTqY
> 
> THANKS FOR READING! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was a total first for me! 1) I've never written incest before (I have a bad tendency of shipping my favorite characters, so it's a bit awkward that my faves are actual siblings here lol), and 2) I've never written literal geniuses, so I was a bit leery about adding to this fandom for multiple reasons! Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed -- I'm a pushover when it comes to feedback, so your comments have inspired me. Expect more soon! Have a nice day! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Course of Study](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28529271) by [Hippy_ki_yay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippy_ki_yay/pseuds/Hippy_ki_yay)




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